As we were present at the first representation of the Cid d'Andalousie, we know who its author was. His name was Pierre Lebrun. Napoleon was delighted with the immense success of the Templiers. He continued each year to demand his three hundred thousand conscripts from the Minister for War and his poet from the Chancellor of the University.
He fancied he had found his poet in M. Raynouard. Unluckily, M. Raynouard was so busy all the week that he could only become a poet on Sunday. His occupation, therefore, prevented him from producing more than three tragedies: the Templiers, of which we have spoken; the États de Blois, which was not so good as the Templiers; and Caton d'Utique, which was not so good as the États de Blois. Napoleon was desperate. He went on clamouring for his three hundred thousand conscripts and his poet.
In 1808, after four years' reign, he possessed M. Raynouard and M. Baour-Lormian, the author of the Templiers and the author of Omasis. This was only at the rate of half a poet a year. A reign of fourteen years should have produced him a Pleiad.
We are not speaking of the poets of the Republic, of the Chéniers, the Ducis, the Arnaults, the Jouys, the Lemerciers: they were not poets of Napoleon's creation. And Napoleon was rather like Louis XIV., who counted only the dukes of his own creation.
It was about this time that the scouts despatched by M. de Fontanes began to make a great row about a new poet whom they had just discovered, and who was putting the finishing touches to a tragedy. This poet's name was Luce de Lancival. We have already spoken of him, when relating what he did and what Napoleon said to him. This worthy M. Luce de Lancival had already committed two youthful indiscretions called Mucius Scævola and ... and ... upon my word! I have forgotten the other title; but these indiscretions were so small, and their fall had been so great, that no questions arose concerning them.
Unfortunately, Luce de Lancival laid great store by Hector. He was appointed professor in belles-lettres and he intended to "profess." This was the third poet who came to nothing in Napoleon's hands.
A great event had taken place at the Théâtre-Français during the preceding year, in connection with the production of the tragedy of Artaxercès. There was a certain individual in Paris who, each time Napoleon asked for a poet, touched his hat and said, "Here am I!" This was César Delrieu, author of the aforesaid tragedy. We knew him thoroughly. Heaven could not possibly have gifted anyone with less talent, or more ingenuous self-conceit and evident pride. The sayings of Delrieu form a repertory which hardly has its equal, unless in the archives of the family of Calprenède. We also knew a young lad called Perpignan, who met with every kind of misadventure, and who ended by becoming the censor. His task was to attend the final rehearsals of plays in order to see that there was nothing in the dress of the actors that might offend morality, nothing in their acting which might bring the Government into contempt and lead to the upheaval of the established order of things. Once in his lifetime he had a piece performed at the Gymnase which failed egregiously, and in connection with which Poirson never ceased to reproach him, on account of the expense to which he had been put over a stuffed parroquet. The play was called the Oncle d'Amérique, and by inscribing Perpignan upon the roll of men of letters, it made him, nolens volens, hail-fellow with such men as M. de Chateaubriand and M. Viennet. Let us hasten to add, to the credit of Perpignan, that he did not take advantage of this privilege as a rule, except to make a jest of himself. Still, he did take advantage of it.
One night he met Delrieu, as he was ascending the magnificent staircase that led to the lounge of the Odéon.
"Good-evening, confrère," he said.